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judimancini1  asked:

Read the piece about Claire's sp power. Please discuss Jamie's "seeing." Love, your blog! Thanks in advance.

I do believe that Jamie has some form of The Sight - as in, in his dreams he can see across time and look in on what his children and grandchildren are doing.

We first get a glimpse of this in Drums of Autumn:

“I did wonder…” Jamie hesitated for a moment. “Has she a birthmark, Sassenach? And if so, did ye tell me of it?”  

  “She does,” I said slowly, thinking. “I don’t think I ever told you about it, though; it isn’t visible most of the time, so it’s been years since I noticed it, myself. It’s a—”

  His hand tightening on my shoulder stopped me.  

  “It’s a wee brown mark, shaped like a diamond,” he said. “Just behind her left ear. Isn’t it?”  

  “Yes, it is.” It was warm and cozy in bed, but a small coolness on the back of my neck made me shiver suddenly. “Did you see that in your dream?”  

  “I kissed her there,” he said softly.

And then there’s this scene at the end of A Breath of Snow and Ashes:

 “You dreamed about Brianna and the children? What happened?”  

    …“It is all right,” he said. “They are safe. I saw them in a town—it seemed like Inverness, but it was different, somehow. They walked up the step of a house—Roger Mac was with them,” he added, offhand. “They knocked at the door, and a wee brown-haired woman opened to them. She laughed wi’ joy to see them, and brought them in, and they went down a hallway, wi’ strange things like bowls hanging from the ceiling.

      “Then they were in a room, wi’ sofas and chairs, and the room had great windows all down one wall, from the floor to the ceiling, and the afternoon sun was streaming in, setting Brianna’s hair to fire, and makin’ wee Mandy cry when it got in her eyes.”  

      “Did … did any of them call the brown-haired woman by name?” I asked, my heart beating in a queer, fast way.  

      He frowned, moonlight making a cross of light over nose and brows.  

      “Aye, they did,” he said. “I canna just—oh, aye; Roger Mac called her Fiona.”  

      “Did he?” I said. My hands rested on his shoulder, and my mouth was a hundred times drier than it had been when I woke up. The night was chilly, but not enough to account for the temperature of my hands.  

      I had told Jamie any amount of things about my own time over the years of our marriage. About trains and planes and automobiles and wars and indoor plumbing. But I was nearly sure that I had never told him what the study looked like in the manse where Roger had grown up with his adoptive father.  

      The room with the window wall, made to accommodate the Reverend’s painting hobby. The manse with its long hallway, furnished with old-fashioned light fixtures, shaped like hanging bowls. And I knew I had never told him about the Reverend’s last housekeeper, a girl with dark, curly hair, called Fiona.  

      “Were they happy?” I asked at last, very quietly.  

      “Aye. Brianna and the lad—they had some shadows to their faces, but I could see they were glad nonetheless. They all sat down to eat—Brianna and her lad close together, leaning on each other—and wee Jem stuffed his face wi’ cakes and cream.” He smiled at the picture, teeth a brief gleam in the darkness.

      “Oh—at the last, just before I woke … wee Jem was messin’ about, picking things up and putting them down as he does. There was a … thing . . on the table. I couldna say what it was; I’ve never seen the like.”  

      He held his hands about six inches apart, frowning at them. “It was maybe this wide, and just a bit longer—something like a box, maybe, only sort of … humped.”  

      “Humped?” I said, puzzled as to what this could be.  

    “Aye, and it had a thing on top like a wee club, only wi’ a knob to each end, and the club was tied to the box wi’ a sort of black cord, curled up on itself like a piggie’s tail. Jem saw it, and he reached out his hand, and said, ‘I want to talk to Grandda.’ And then I woke.”  

      He leaned his head back farther, so as to look up into my face.  

      “Would ye ken what a thing like that might be, Sassenach? It was like nothing I’ve ever seen.”  

      The autumn wind came rustling down from the hill, dry leaves hurrying in its wake, quick and light as the footsteps of a ghost, and I felt the hair rise on nape and forearms.  

      “Yes, I know,” I said. “I’ve told you about them, I know.” I didn’t think, though, that I had ever described one to him, in more than general terms. I cleared my throat.  

      “It’s called a telephone.”

And then this scene in Echo:

“You‘ve been dreaming of them, haven‘t you?” I said.

…“I saw Jem and the wee lass—” A smile came over his face at that. “God, she‘s a feisty wee baggage! She minds me o‘ you, Sassenach.”

…“What were they doing?”

He rubbed a finger between his brows as though his forehead itched.

“They were outside,” he said slowly. “Jem told her to do something and she kicked him in the shin and ran away from him, so he chased her. I think it was spring.” He smiled, eyes fixed on whatever he‘d seen in his dream. “I mind the wee flowers, caught in her hair, and lying in drifts across the stones.”

“What stones?” I asked sharply.

“Oh. The gravestones,” he answered, readily enough. “That‘s it—they were playing among the stones on the hill behind Lallybroch.”

I sighed happily. This was the third dream that he‘d had, seeing them at Lallybroch. It might be only wishful thinking, but I knew it made him as happy as it made me, to feel that they had made a home there.

…“Right. What was it that bothered you, though?”

He glanced curiously at me.

“How did ye ken I was troubled?”

I looked at him down my nose—or as much down my nose as was possible, given the disparity of height.

“You may not have a glass face, but I have been married to you for thirty-odd years.”

He let the fact that I hadn‘t actually been with him for twenty of those years pass without comment, and only smiled.

“Aye. Well, it wasna anything, really. Only that they went into the broch.”…The small frown was back between his brows.

“The broch,” he repeated, and looked at me, helpless. “I dinna ken what it was. Only that I didna want them to go in. It … felt as though there was something inside. Waiting. And I didna like it at all.”

Grand Gestures

Fifth installment of the Jacob Black “Home” series (“Home” - “Familiarities”“Reunion” - “Pitching Fits”) requested by so, so many of you. “Just wondering if you are going to continue the jacob black series because im obsessed with it. Seriously i cant wait for more of your amazing writing even if its not the jacob series.” If you’d like a continuation, just drop me an ask. The story is pretty much mapped out, so all I need to see is the interest to punch out the next installment. Hope you like it!

All past and future installments of this series can be found on the “The Story Continues…”page.

Listen to the series playlist on the “Playlist” page.

You were swelling with a victor’s pride as you joined the crowd exiting the lunch room that day, Bella’s irritation hardly putting a dent in your radiant success; you’d conquered the majority of your problems, all in one conversation. It had been such a simple solution, dangling itself in your face… the only downside was that your glimmering trophy was pinched between the over-eager fingers of Mike Newton. Most of your problems were swept underneath the rug, sure, but you’d willingly sacrificed both your peace and Bella’s by entangling yourself within the blond boy’s social snare. There was no doubt in your mind that he’d be pulling moves; first the offering of the front seat, next an arm on the headrest, a knowledgeable comment on the houses passing by, the nature trails, the weather. The car ride would be the worst of it, you knew; once you were on the Beach, you had the promise of Jacob Black as an ever-willing safety net. Even without the protection of your best friend, you knew you’d be able to lose Newton in the woods. He may have the book-smarts to survive a few nights in a tent, but no amount of training in his mother’s store could account for the tangle of roots in the ocean of daunting cedars. You were set. Bella, on the other hand… well, she was less inclined to jaunt off to the beach with her new acquaintance, especially after your rip in the truck that morning. She tackled you, verbally at least, at the end of the school day, her hands slack on the steering wheel with lack of anticipation.

“How quickly are you planning to ditch me for Jacob Black once we make it to La Push?” she inquired, her voice soft and leaking injury like fluid from a shallow wound. Your chest tightened with guilt, your face blazing with heated embarrassment at the thought of being so predictable in your abandonment. She offered a weak smile, her lips pressed into a thin line, turning upwards ever so slightly to indicate her lack of aggression. “I’m not angry with you, Y/n, I’m just saying… I don’t know, let me know when I’m a part of your escape route, okay? I still have to plan mine.” She turned the keys in the ignition, her beast of an automobile raging beneath you, your ears vibrating with the sheer force of the engine’s growl.

“Am I really that obvious?” You questioned, Bella’s warm eyes flickering from your face to the rain-slick road behind you, watching as students tore out of their parking spots at breakneck speeds. She grinned, her body twisting as she began to reverse, the truck’s groan a sign of progress.

“As soon as you started talking to Mike, I knew you were up to something. What could you be interested in at La Push?” She feigned confusion, her eyes narrow as she followed the string of cars as they exited the parking lot. You slapped at her arm, knocking her elbow into her rib cage. She scoffed in mock offense, her jaw dropping dramatically. “First she talks her way to another man via Mike Newton, and now… she dares to distract the driver? No limits.” You rolled your eyes, leaning your head back against your seat, your body melting easily into the worn leather upholstery. Despite your comfort levels, you found your skin prickling with a different sort of heat; the embarrassment you had felt at the thought of abandoning your sister had faded from your face, but a new breed of tingling warmth flooded your body at the thought of Jacob Black, drastically changing the temperature (and likely the colour) of your skin. What was it with your family and matchmaking?

“God, not you too. Charlie’s already rooting for a marriage, or at least he was. I don’t need you two tag-teaming to steer me into a relationship with my best friend.” Bella clicked her tongue in faux defeat, eyeballing your flushed face as she drove, trying her hardest not to appear conspicuous. She had all the stealth of an elephant in high heels, her gaze burning holes in your already scorched face, watching for telltale signs of her sister’s involvement with public enemy number one. After a few moments of silence, save the earsplitting roar of the truck, Bella’s voice filtered over the engine, pricking at your ears. “You should call him tonight, if you can. Let him know you’re coming down so he can pull you from Mike’s clutches. Wouldn’t want you to be stuck with a bunch of boring juniors all day, especially…” she widened her eyes knowingly, capping her sentence in silence, knowing you’d fill her empty ending with your pre-made prejudices about the leader of the outing. She guided the truck into Charlie’s driveway, parking beside your father’s police cruiser, cutting the engine and flooding your world with watery quiet, rain pattering against the metal exterior of the cabin. You exited the vehicle, not bothering with a hood, allowing the few seconds of exposure to dampen your hair as you walked towards the front door, listening for the telltale signs of Charlie’s presence within the house, planning routes to avoid him. He was far from in the clear, unless he’d somehow managed to visit Billy while in uniform and apologize for his explosive departure. You doubted any progress had been made.

Bella held the door for you, her keys jingling against her palm as she moved inside, darting up the stairs to the quiet sanctuary of her bedroom, stumbling audibly as she disappeared from sight. Charlie’s usual clamor was erupting from the kitchen like an active volcano shouting its intentions to the villages below; silverware clattered against each other, cups clinked, and water ran roaringly over sink edges. Even without visibility, you could tell he was creating quite the mess. You wandered over to the phone, your fingertips barely brushing the cradle before Charlie’s footsteps found you, the gravelly bass of his voice humming weakly against your ears.

“Hey, Y/n,” he began, his tone failing to mask his discomfort; he was well aware of your current opinion on his more recent actions. You turned to face him, absorbing his figure; his hands were tucked into the pockets of his police jacket, his badge gleaming softly in the yellow light of the ancient lamps he had inherited from his mother. His brows were raised in greeting, but his eyes were clouded with the familiar smog of guilt, polluting the purity of his usually trustworthy gaze. “How was school?” You nodded you greeting, refusing to answer his innocent inquiry, taking the low road and selecting the silent treatment as your chosen method of petty teenage rebellion. You returned your focus to the phone, punching in the area code for La Push as the Chief cleared his throat, preparing for the oncoming, and inevitable, speech. “I know I’m not your favourite person right now, but… look, what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry,” he concluded, his hands relocating to perch on his hips, assuming the typical father stance when addressing his child. You chewed your bottom lip, tapping a few more numbers into the phone. You were tempted to reject his apology, but there was no denying the goodness in Charlie; he was sorry for souring your evening, and his apologies were almost always genuine. He sighed, tilting his head in the direction of the kitchen. “My grand gesture burnt on the stove, but if the kids these days are interested in… charred…” his voice trailed off, his brows furrowing. “You have my permission to order pizza if Bella doesn’t feel like cooking.” He turned to walk towards the door, fiddling with his belt as he went. “Might want to let it air out, too.” You twisted the phone’s glossy spiral cord around your index finger, calling out to Charlie as he opened the door to return to his stagnant shift.

“Billy?” Charlie’s lips twisted in an uncomfortable grimace, his dark eyes on yours, countless unspoken apologies dancing in his irises.

“Workin’ on it,” he admitted, stepping onto the doorjamb, his heavy boots scuffing along the ridge as he worked himself out of the house. Before the door closed him off to you for the night, you called out your thanks, watching his mustache twitch as his smile grew more prominent, his happiness at having cleansed the air of all pollutants with the daughter that openly enjoyed spending time with him clear as a Phoenix sky. You returned to the phone as the front door closed, finishing Jacob’s number as the cruiser pulled out of the driveway, disappearing on the ribbon of asphalt to a soundtrack of mechanical ringing. After the third ring, a voice deeper than expected answered your call, your heart sinking into your shoes.

“Billy, hi,” you started, leaning against the wall as your struggled to formulate conversation points with a man who may or may not be extending his grudge to include you. “Is Jacob around? This won’t take long, I just need to talk to him for a minute.” Billy sighed into the receiver, his lungs deflating audibly.

“Y/n, now’s not the best time,” he began, continuing over your weak attempt to jump in between his sentences with a counter argument. “You know it’s tense right now. I’m in hot water with your dad, and he’s in hot water with me. I hate to drag you into this, but I don’t think now is a good time for… whatever it is you’ve got up your sleeve.” You clenched your teeth, disappointed in yourself for once again proving so very predictable. Twice in one day… you needed to step up your game.

“You know me too well. Let me know when things simmer down. We’d love to grab some fish fry.” You parted with polite, if strained, words, hanging the phone on the cradle, your palm slick with salted sweat. With every victory came defeat, and your battlefield was under constant attack. You condemned yourself to your bedroom once again, steering clear of the kitchen entirely, your face growing numb from loss of faith, your features falling into a mask of muted sorrow. You had no other option but to lay in the trenches and pray for a hasty resolution to end the war of old men that hindered your diplomatic meetings with your beloved enemy. Unable to scavenge the willpower to begin your homework, you decided on sleeping your stresses away, or rather pushing your stresses further into the future, tucking yourself beneath a cavern of sheets and settling into a well-deserved nap.

However well-deserved, your slumber was short lived. You were roused from your sleep by the timid tapping of knuckles against glass, your bleary vision clearing in time to notice a handful of rather important details. The first, and most consuming, was that you’d managed to sleep through a good five hours of your day; the afternoon you had kissed goodbye was now shrouded in the pitch darkness of night, your view out of your window aided only by a distant streetlight. Second, the rain had increased greatly, drowning the forest beyond the streaming glass panes, leaves laden with heavy dew droplets. Third, you had a guest. You stumbled uncoordinatedly towards your window, your feet hammering against your floorboards as you fought the confines of the blankets still tangled in your limbs, your fingers struggling with the latch locking poor Jacob Black outside in the pouring rain. You flipped the mechanism, sliding your window open, your hands collecting water as soon as the outside world was made accessible.

“Jacob, what are you doing here? What time is it?” you wondered aloud, your voice docked in volume to avoid alerting Charlie or Bella to the presence of your visitor. No matter how much Charlie liked Jacob, if he found the boy outside of your bedroom window, he’d turn him inside out. The Chief didn’t set aside his duties as a father, not even for Jacob. Jacob’s face illuminated as he smiled, his brows raised with mischievous ambition.

“You rang?” He chuckled, his muffled laughter sending droplets cascading from the hood of his raincoat. You shot him a severe look, cautioning him wordlessly to keep his volume to a minimum. His smile softened, his face radiating warmth even when drenched and exposed to the elements. “Relax, Y/n. I’m here for business reasons. Someone, and by someone I mean myself, ordered a jail break for a Miss Swan.” You stared, dumbfounded, watching the rain streak the planes of his jacket, your just-woken mind too groggy to comprehend so wild a gesture as this. He rolled his eyes, motioning for you to join him outside. “C’mon, the paperwork’s in the car. Someone’s gotta sign for this.” You beamed, closing your window on Jacob’s smiling face, turning to sprint for your bedroom door, your hand snagging your raincoat as you went.

wow someone reblogged “date a girl who comments her code” post and is really pissed at people who comment their code?

like okay, first its a meme so chill

second, their examples for why it is a stupid thing to do is like a bunch of pointless comments. like things that wouldn’t necessarily need comments??

third, not everyone who has to code are code developers or anything?? like I am a physicist and i know my code may not be the most efficient or cleanest code but it gets the job done. I have an officemate who had to pick it up on the job and she does a lot of great things with code without having formal training in any sort of coding language. but at the end of the day our focus is the physics problem at hand not having the cleanest code

fourth, commenting code is super useful, especially as a researcher when you likely will have to pass your code on to someone else. a bunch of times ive gotten my advisors code for some thing and had to ask him what the hell things were and he hadn’t touched it in years and even he didn’t know

fifth, its a meme?

Kagami; Love’s Downpour 

Kagami x Reader fluff ♥
Word count: 1126

Annnd yet again I get a bit carried away ╮(─▽─)╭
So hard to keep fluff short haha  ಥ_ಥ
I hope yall enjoy this one as well! ♥ 

♥Admin Arimura

You had only wanted to linger around his warm presence just a little longer, so how did it turn out like this?

You had scurried down the hall way to the front of Kagami’s home room as soon as you were allowed out, muttering pleads to what ever fortune you had that day to step up and keep Kagami from whizzing towards the gym before you even reach the end of the hall way. Luckily for you, today was his turn to clean up home room so you managed to catch him.

Knock knock
“Taiga, wanna go to Maji Burger together today? I’m craving fries.” A total lie. Lie or not, you just wanted the chance to spend any amount of time with him.
His face had brightened immediately at the sight of you. 
“Yeah! Let’s go! Wait for me by the lockers, I’ll get this done real quick!” 

On your way down to the lockers you noticed many of your fellow school mates had brought out un-opened umbrellas.
Oh no, is it meant to rain today? I should of checked the forecast arg!..Wait… If we get to Maji Burger in time before it starts raining… we can spend even more time together while waiting for the rain to let up! GENIUS ___!
You were so deep in plot-concentration that you had not even noticed the devilish grin you had let out until you were awoken to a familiar and questioning voice.
“Uh… what are you smiling at ____?” He breathes out a low chuckle as you become flustered at letting him see such a silly view. 
“Nothing, nothing! Let’s go before it starts to- I mean I-I’m so hungry! Lets hurry!” He cocks an eyebrow up at the sudden small stutter, but had no chance to press on as you had already hooked your arm around his and started heading out, dragging him along with.

Did your luck run out after being able to catch Kagami? You were only half way to Maji Burger before it started pouring. With little to no shelter around on the small streets, the two of you huddle together under the veranda of the nearest house.
*Crackle…. crackle….. THUMMMMH* 
The sudden roar from up above was so fierce, you swore even the ground shook. Noticing you stiffen up, Kagami reached out and locked his hand with yours before giving you a slight tug- as if to say ‘Rely on me’. 
“You know, I live only a few streets down… It’s really close by and I think we should dry off soon before we catch a cold- p-plus there’s no where else we can go in this weather.” You felt his increase in temperature through his palm and thought to ease him off his nervousness so you gave him a swift nod before looking down shyly. 

By the time the two of you reached Kagami’s apartment complex, the thunder had reached a steady pulse- every few seconds. 
I can’t believe the one day I don’t check the forecast and It’s a bloody thunderstorm! You cursed at yourself inwardly for being so tardy- not that you minded the sudden chance of not just spending time with your sweetheart, but at his house where he lives alone. The realisation had came late as you stood awkwardly in the door way, fidgeting with the ends of your damp hair and tugging at your school blouse to keep it from sticking to your skin.

“A-Ah I, um… You should probably take those off- I MEAN TAKE A SHOWER OF COURSE! I HAVE SPARE CLOTHES” His face sizzled at his wrong choice of words before rushing you into the living room to wait as he prepared the bath.

After the bath, you picked up what seemed to be Kagami’s sweat pants and a white T-shirt with a pop-styled basketball print on the front.
These are HUGE! I can’t wear these pants at all! They just slip right down! 
There was really no point in wearing the pants at all, so you opted for the insanely large T-shirt that reached just above your knee. 

“Thanks for letting me use your bath Kagami, and the clothes too but the pants-”
“GAH! WHY AREN’T YOU WEARING PANTS?!” He cut you off, screaming at you with one hand covering his eyes and another in between you and him, begging you to turn away.

“Baka, I can’t wear your pants! They just slip right down!” 

“B-But, this is too much!” 

“I’m completely covered! What are you on about?!” Getting a little irritated and impatient, you made your way over to his side regardless of his loud shrieks and yaps at you to go away. You sat down on the sofa next to him and had started to lean in on his arm before pulling away instantly. You had just taken in your current situation properly.

“W-what’s wrong?”
“Hey… I think I’m going to have to stay over tonight… I don’t think the storm will let up any time soon”
You could feel him tense up straight away at the words ‘stay’ and ‘tonight’. You
thought that he may have needed a bit more convincing before allowing you to stay, but before you could whip up some A-grade excuses- 

“You can have my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.” Huh? Your brain just could not process the fact that he actually agreed to having you stay over and without thinking clearly you had muttered out accidentally-
“But I want to sleep together.”

Seconds pass as the silence molds over. You, too afraid to look at him, not wanting him to see the red spread across your cheeks at the accidental- very hinting comment and him, too flustered to do anything but remember to breathe.

“I-I just meant I wanted to cuddle cause you know… It’s cold…” You kept your gaze downwards at your hands, balled into a shaky fist. 
A few more seconds pass and you start to regret saying anything at all. Doubt washes over you and proceeds to drown you. Should I just go home? 
You twiddled your fingers, playing with your nails, the ends of the T-shirt you wore- anything to keep you distracted.

Noticing how nervous you became, Kagami let out a small sigh before taking a deep breathe. 
“I’ll get the bed ready after I clean up. What do you want for dinner?” His face still coloured with a violent red that matched yours cheeks very well. You reached out for his hand before letting out an airy “Thanks… anything is fine.”
Shoulders dropping, breathings slowing down to an even pace, he leans in to plant a kiss on your forehead before flashing you a toothy grin.
“Wait for me, we’ve got the whole night to catch up.”

englishrose1980  asked:

Hello, what do you think England could have been like if Arthur Tudor hadn't died young? Would he have been a good King?

    I think Arthur may have made a good king. He had his father’s careful nature, and perhaps his mother’s kind heart. I’m speculating, of course, but we get glimpses of his character in the records, just like we see Henry’s character revealed through his recorded tantrums and disorderly behavior when he was young.

    What little we do know speaks well to Arthur’s character. He was a very serious, studious boy, who reportedly had a bit of a stiff, awkward manner in public, but had a strong sense of duty. Today, he’d probably be disparaged as a “nerd” but he apparently excelled in his studies. It was said that before his sixteenth birthday, he had absorbed the works of twenty-four of the classical and humanist authors.

    He may have been proficient at archery, since his father’s records mention an expensive bow given to him as a gift when he was a boy, but Arthur doesn’t seem to have been interested in the rough-and-tumble sports his brother loved so much. Arthur was very much an “indoor person,” who preferred reading to jousting.

    Nor does he seem to have been a fan of the pomp and splendor of court ceremonies. He did his duty and danced when the situation called for it, “right honorably and pleasantly” but doesn’t seem to have craved it the way his brother did.

    Arthur chose not to consummate his marriage to Katharine of Aragon, despite spending several nights in her bed. Katharine never said why Arthur made that choice, so we can only speculate. He was in excellent health, and a young boy at the peak of his hormonal years, and Katherine was knock-out gorgeous. It seems Arthur was either a little shy, or giving his new bride a chance to get to know him before they consummated the union. After all, he thought they had a lifetime together ahead of them and there was no rush. 

    His decision to wait wasn’t all that unusual. James of Scotland apparently waited several years before consummating his marriage to Margaret Tudor.

    Let’s not forget these two young people had been tossed together without even being able to speak to one another. They both knew Latin, but they’d been taught a different pronunciation and a different accent, so verbally, it was just as foreign as another language to them. The only way they could really communicate was in writing, and I’ve always imagined them spending those few nights they shared in the same bed passing notes, quietly getting to know one another.

    Arthur may have lied about consummating the marriage, but we can’t be sure he actually made the comments Henry VIII dug up when he was trying to prove the marriage had been consummated. These were men with an incentive to lie, after all.

    If Arthur did make the comments, it was probably to spare his bride any embarrassment. If he hadn’t consummated his marriage, people would automatically assume it was because of something he found objectionable about his wife. It was bravado, yes, but it was still respectful of Katharine.

    Arthur had an excellent role model in his father’s treatment of his mother. Elizabeth of York and Henry VII had an ideal marriage for the era. Though an arranged match, it seems they had deep affection for one another, and mutual respect. Henry VII had never even taken a mistress, a very odd choice for a monarch of the age.

    If Arthur hadn’t died, the whole history of England might have been different. I imagine he would have ruled much like his father - quietly, ably, and frugally. He’d probably be one of those kings that people gloss over when recounting history because his reign wouldn’t have been scandalous or particularly memorable. But it would have been a good reign for the English people.

    Katharine, too, would have been much happier. She would have had a husband who respected her and treated her well. I imagine she would have come to love Arthur. her faith and culture encouraged it, and besides, Arthur was a good fellow. He would have been a good husband, I imagine, just as his father was.

aellanora  asked:

I've seen the trailer for the movie Bilal going around tumblr and i have some q's about the historical accuracy of the events. from my knowledge Bilal had been born into slavery, yet it seems like he has been kidnapped in the movie? I don't know who to acquire answers from so I thought I'd come to you and maybe you can direct me to someone who can answer if you can't. Thank you so much.

What wreckernora is asking about is this post I made about the Bilal animated movie, which, at 90,000 or so reblogs/likes, has completely wrecked all ability to check mentions.

So I’m not the optimal person to ask about this – I’ve got no background in Islam and I haven’t read the Qur’an or any of the hadiths. Having gotten a lot of input from readers (and ex-colleagues working on it), I can infer the following:

  • This movie doesn’t follow Bilal’s story 100% true to the source material - hence the “is he a slave or is he kidnapped?” portion.
  • The movie is being made in Dubai and financed by fairly religious people, so there’s about a snowball’s chance in hell they’ll depict the Prophet onscreen (as half the reblogs seemed to be getting outraged over).
  • There have been depictions of the prophet in media before. Some of the notable ones I got in asks:
    • The Message, a 1976 film which depicts the Prophet only in shots from his point of view. This was by far the most often-mentioned depiction.
    • In old school art, the Prophet’s face was usually covered by flame, which has translated into bright lights in today’s representations.
    • A grade school illustrated book by “Demi” where every image of Muhammad is a golden silhouette without any details. (via numberjonnyfive)
  • As for worldwide release: my understanding is they’ve yet to work out distribution, but they want to. Showing there’s a market for it is important. I passed along the 90k comment thread to one of my friends working on the movie, and hopefully that’ll help bolster their case. There will, of course, be backlash in some parts of the world, so they may have a tough time bringing it to certain markets. Time will tell.

anonymous asked:

Did mentions of alcohol seem ooc in 11.15? Sam commenting on Dean having a beer at noon when we've seen Dean have whisky first thing out of bed; Dean commenting on how much the wrestlers drink. If nothing's random, then what does this mean? Is it meant to show us that the winchesters are getting old af? (I am also old af)

Howdy. Disclaimer right off the bat, I am also old af. Well, older than J2M in real life, at least. Okay, I’m 3 months older than Misha. And Dean has a long and complicated history with alcohol. Second disclaimer: we’re talking about a fictional tv character here, so real-world notions of alcoholism and alcohol use in general don’t really apply the same way, when alcohol is more of a plot device/characterization tool/metaphor etc. Of course, if we were talking about the case study of an actual human, I’d be extremely concerned for their health and well being on a fundamental level, but we’re talking about a character here, so I’m taking some liberties that I would never apply in real life. Just so that’s clear.

I think we’ve really been seeing a different approach to Dean’s alcohol use for a while now. Much of s7 was the Alcohol-Is-A-Vitamin self-medicating Dean, but once he got back from purgatory in s8 we started seeing him just as often with a cup of coffee as a beer. And yeah, in a way that was just substituting caffeine for alcohol, but at least caffeine isn’t the same sort of intoxicant as alcohol is.

He again began drinking heavily in s9 again as a method of self-medication to help him deal with the Mark, and what it was doing to him. That hit new lows when Dean was a demon at the beginning of s10, but once he was “cured” s10 became a season-long experiment with Dean trying out all sorts of different approaches to both manage the lingering effects of the Mark and also trying to figure himself out in general. He tried all sorts of different foods, branched out into enjoying cake and croissookies, and seemed to drink less in general. There was one episode where he guzzled bottle after bottle of water, even (10.15). It was only when the mark was taking over again toward the end of s10 that he started in with the binge drinking again.

Now that the Mark is gone (even though it’s out there walking around eating souls and wreaking havoc), we’ve mainly seen Dean consuming alcohol in a casual fashion that seems… more moderate, for lack of a better term. (*reminder that we’re talking about a fictional character, and a story where alcohol becomes just another characterization tool, and doesn’t necessarily have real-world consequences)

Since the beginning of s11, we’ve only really seen Dean “drunk” or at least theoretically drinking heavily (i.e. more than a beer or two, or the glass of wine he had for dinner at Jody’s house. And I really should write something up about that, because Dean? DRINKING WINE?! Wow there’s probably some pie vs cake sort of meta in there somewhere, right?). Where was I… OH. Right. We’ve only seen Dean drinking heavily three times.

in 11.04 he spent the night in Jimmy’s Roadhouse and only stumbled out to the car at dawn, claiming “mistakes were made.” At the time, there were a lot of conflicting opinions over what those mistakes may have been, ranging from a fight to getting blackout drunk and passing out to a questionable hookup in the men’s room (whether with a man or a woman). But this was also “performing Dean” who had taunted Sam for not wanting to let loose and have fun the night before, and then it was SAM who ended up letting loose and having fun, which led me to believe that Dean… didn’t. He looked so stiff and weary the next morning, while Sam seemed pretty content with himself. So was this just another instance of Dean telling a story for Sam because that’s what he was expected to do? Because that was Dean’s entire reason for stopping at that roadhouse to begin with, to recall a long-ago hookup he had there that he still remembered fondly. He didn’t brag about his conquests; in fact he even framed the entire evening with the word “mistakes,” and perhaps the biggest mistake he made was believing he could reclaim that past.

There’s an ongoing theme right now of “you can’t outrun your past,” and right there, in 11.04, not only could Dean not outrun his past, but when he tried to relive a small piece of it that he’d once enjoyed, he no longer felt the same way about it. Things that had once brought him happiness maybe aren’t enough to continue sustaining him, especially when taken in context of Sam’s asking if he ever thinks about having “something more.” Dean denies he could ever have it, but he’s also clearly tired of pretending he’s satisfied with what he’d accepted in the past.

The next time we see Dean drink more than a casual beer or glass of wine (pffft still not over that), is in 11.13. (*again, disclaimer- fictional character- sometimes a beer is just a beer- a beer is the traditional Winchester BM scene beverage of choice, etc.)

Dean stumbles into the kitchen first thing in the morning, looking like he passed out in his clothes, with even his sock half-pulled-off and flapping around like he just can’t be fussed to fix it. To me, as an “old” person (sheesh I’m 41, I’m not like 90 or anything), I have experience waking up hung over, and I also have experience waking up from doing something dumb like sleeping on the floor. And yeah, there’s an obvious intersection on the Venn diagram of “being incredibly drunk” and “sleeping on the floor” (or on the sidewalk, or under a table, or on a barroom bench).

The thing that rubbed me wrong about Dean’s shuffling, stiff walk at the beginning of 11.13 is that he was so horribly and obviously stiff. He just looked like he was in pain. There was an element of hangover to his “performance” but to me, speaking as someone with a congenital spinal defect who often moves like that first thing in the morning, he looked like someone who’d slept somewhere unfortunate, such as in the front seat of his car, slumped over a bar, or the like. Alcohol may have led to finding himself in such an uncomfortable state, but the majority of his movements were more reminiscent to ME of generalized pain, as opposed to someone claiming to have had a relaxing night of fun and pleasure, you know? He walked the way I did the morning after I spent five hours at the gym perfecting a 180 move staff form. *it occurs to me that I should mention I do kung fu, and trust me, throwing yourself around and spinning a 6′ long stick for five hours MAKES YOU SORE*

So we have two different looks at what Dean’s been up to with regard to getting drunk and seeking out company in bars, but neither of them give us more than general clues that I’ve attempted to describe above. So really, all we have are two performances of Dean for Sam’s benefit, and not a real idea of how Dean actually spent both of those nights.

Back in 11.04, when he realized that Sam wasn’t just passed out alone on the back seat, Dean immediately gave him some privacy (after a quick peek in the back, because really…) But he did it without much complaint, more congratulating Sam on a job well done than continuing to make a big deal of his own misadventures (whatever they may have been).

SO FINALLY TO ADDRESS THE SCENE FROM 11.15! I knew I could get there eventually… sorry about that…

For the first time, we are actually SHOWN what Dean’s up to in the bar. Granted, we have to take his word on how he went from having one shot with Gunner to ending up passed out on the bench, with the bar emptied out around him and even the chairs stacked up on the tables like they were closing up without bothering to kick him out. But the rest of his story doesn’t really add up, either.

I made a comment during the liveblogging about Dabb’s legendary car continuity discrepancies, with a shout out to @elizabethrobertajones because she has an ongoing vendetta. What stood out to me was that when Sam called Dean at the bar as he was sharing that first shot with Gunner, Sam was apparently headed to the bar from their motel to meet up with Dean. JUST HOW FAR AWAY WAS THEIR MOTEL, ANYWAY? Far enough that, despite already being in the car on his way to the bar, Dean went from straight-up sober to passed out drunk before Sam arrived? That seems to be an impractically far away motel, no?

So it couldn’t have been that long that Dean was at the bar before Sam arrived. Let’s go with “less than half an hour,” because I googled Brimson, Missouri where the episode was set, and it’s got a whopping population of 63 people. It’s smaller than Lebanon, Kansas, and just as isolated. So even if they had to drive out to the nearest interstate highway or larger town to find a motel, it’s still about 20 miles, which they could manage in less than half an hour on the deserted sort of roads around Brimson.

So somehow Dean went from fine, to life of the party drinking with a bunch of his childhood heroes (all the wrestlers, who apparently can really drink), to liver-screaming drunk in a closed-down bar. What happened to all those other people who’d been in the bar partying? Did they drink their fill on Dean’s dime and then just bolt? Dean was obviously hanging out waiting for Sam, but he was also on a case. We know Dean’s USUALLY pretty responsible while working a case, and doesn’t let himself get passing out drunk while there’s demons afoot, you know? There are some pretty notable exceptions to that, but the majority of the time, when he’s working, he’s working, and not getting drunk.

What really set Dean’s behavior in a different light, for me at least, was the very prominent El Sol sign behind Sam when he finds Dean asleep on the bench. El Sol, ever since 2.20, has been the beer sign associated with deception or things not being as they seem. @justanotheridijiton has a wonderful compilation post (*ETA THAT’S THE WRONG LINK, HERE’S THE RIGHT ONE) of all the instances of El Sol signs being used in this way. It’s pretty extensive.

So when Sam wanders in and asks Dean what happened, Dean rambles out a weird little tale about how all the wrestlers drank him under the table, even though he managed to test them all with the holy water, too. I guess Dean really is out of practice when drinking the hard liquor. He might still have beer for lunch, but tequila shots can take him down.

To be fair, tequila shots could take me down even when I was young and stupid and borderline alcoholic, so I feel his pain. The saying “one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor,” I FEEL THAT FEELING SO DEEPLY. I HAVE STORIES OH MY GOD. But that’s for another post… or probably not >.>

So maybe when Dean begged off and decided he was done paying to pour liquor for a bunch of guys who seemed to have no limit to their alcohol tolerance, he decided to lay down and take a nap. When the free drinks stopped coming (maybe the bartender lady had pity on him and kicked the rest of the guys out? who knows), the bar cleared out pretty fast, I suppose?

Whatever the truth was, we saw Dean, asleep, alone. In an uncomfortable place. But the thing is, his movements there were a lot more like those I associate with drunk Dean. He was all floppy and droopy, loose-limbed and tired, but Sam got to him before he spent an entire night passed out like that, before he could begin to feel the effects of sleeping in such a horrible position on a hard bench.

Whatever the case, that El Sol sign, paired with the brightest light in the whole bar hanging right next to it beside Sam, stands out the most. There is some level of deception/dishonesty happening there. Dean even says, “Why is it so bright in here?” And yeah, that’s a side effect from alcohol intoxication, but he also said it while looking up at Sam AND THE EL SOL SIGN, the “fake sun,” which really wasn’t all that bright on its own in a rather dimly lit bar.

So it’s been a while since Dean would roll out of bed and pick up a whiskey bottle. And while Dean does drink beer (and apparently even wine now!) more casually with meals or when he’s just relaxing or whatever, he’s been drinking coffee just as often. He and Sam were both drinking coffee at the beginning of 11.15, and had been doing so pretty heavily for the last week or more judging by Dean’s assertion that he was burned out from the nonstop research, and getting nowhere fast with it.

In 11.14, Dean drinking that beer was more of a childish jab at Sam because Sam had drunk half a bag worth of coffee by himself and left none for Dean (RUDE, SAM!). I think a lot of Dean’s inability to keep up with the wrestlers first of all had to do with their relative size. Those guys made Dean look small. They had an advantage on him just based on that. If he’d tried to keep up with a bunch of guys who were known alcoholics but also outweighed him by at least 50 or 60 lbs, even Dean at his s7 drunkest probably couldn’t have kept up. Maybe only Demon Dean would’ve, just because he had super demon healing powers.

Much as he drank as a demon, he never really seemed drunk.

My main takeaway was not necessarily that Dean’s getting old, per se, but that he’s been learning moderation recently. And in turn, he’s learning the consequences of straying off that path of moderation. But why only show one thing when the same scene can teach us dozens of things? Because we also had the El Sol mention, and the update on the case and that none of the wrestlers were possessed by demons, and Dean having a great time with some of his childhood heroes, and revealing a little bit more about what Dean’s actually doing while out at bars, i.e. passing out on a bench alone…

*scrolls back up and looks at the enormity of all that crap I typed* I’m sure I had a point somewhere in all that. *gives up and shuffles off in search of a drink*

I could see at once that Jamie had been dreaming again.

His face had an unfocused, inward look, as though he were seeing something other than the fried black pudding on his plate. 

Seeing him like this gave me an urgent desire to ask what he had seen—quelled at once, for fear that if I asked too soon, he might lose some part of the dream. It also, truth be told, knotted me with envy. I would have given anything to see what he saw, whether it was real or not. That hardly mattered—it was connection, and the severed nerve ends that had joined me to my vanished family sparked and burned like shorted-out electrical cables when I saw that look on his face. 

I couldn’t stand not to know what he had dreamed, though in the usual manner of dreams, it was seldom straightforward. 

“You’ve been dreaming of them, haven’t you?” I said, when the serving maid had gone out. We’d risen late, tired from the long ride to Wilmington the day before, and were the only diners in the inn’s small front room. 

He glanced at me and nodded slowly, a small frown between his brows. That made me uneasy; the occasional dreams he had of Bree or the children normally left him peaceful and happy. 

“What?” I demanded. “What happened?” 

He shrugged, still frowning. 

“Nothing, Sassenach. I saw Jem and the wee lass—” A smile came over his face at that. “God, she’s a feisty wee baggage! She minds me o’ you, Sassenach.” 

This was a dubious compliment as phrased, but I felt a deep glow at the thought. I’d spent hours looking at Mandy and Jem, memorizing every small feature and gesture, trying to extrapolate, imagine what they would look like as they grew—and I was almost sure that Mandy had my mouth. I knew for a fact that she had the shape of my eyes—and my hair, poor child, for all it was inky black. 

“What were they doing?” 

He rubbed a finger between his brows as though his forehead itched. 

“They were outside,” he said slowly. “Jem told her to do something and she kicked him in the shin and ran away from him, so he chased her. I think it was spring.” He smiled, eyes fixed on whatever he’d seen in his dream. “I mind the wee flowers, caught in her hair, and lying in drifts across the stones.” 

“What stones?” I asked sharply. 

“Oh. The gravestones,” he answered, readily enough. “That’s it—they were playing among the stones on the hill behind Lallybroch.” 

I sighed happily. This was the third dream that he’d had, seeing them at Lallybroch. It might be only wishful thinking, but I knew it made him as happy as it made me, to feel that they had made a home there. 

“They could be,” I said. “Roger went there—when we were looking for you. He said the place was standing vacant, for sale. Bree would have money; they might have bought it. They could be there!” I’d told him that before, but he nodded, pleased. 

“Aye, they could be,” he said, his eyes still soft with his memory of the children on the hill, chasing through the long grass and the worn gray stones that marked his family’s rest. 

“A flutterby came with them,” he said suddenly. “I’d forgot that. A blue one.” 

“Blue? Are there blue butterflies in Scotland?” I frowned, trying to remember. Such butterflies as I’d ever noticed had tended to be white or yellow, I thought. 

Jamie gave me a look of mild exasperation. 

“It’s a dream, Sassenach. I could have flutterbys wi’ tartan wings, and I liked.” 

I laughed, but refused to be distracted. 

“Right. What was it that bothered you, though?” 

He glanced curiously at me. 

“How did ye ken I was troubled?” 

I looked at him down my nose—or as much down my nose as was possible, given the disparity of height. 

“You may not have a glass face, but I have been married to you for thirty-odd years.” 

He let the fact that I hadn’t actually been with him for twenty of those years pass without comment, and only smiled. 

“Aye. Well, it wasna anything, really. Only that they went into the broch.” 

“The broch?” I said uncertainly. The ancient tower for which Lallybroch was named did stand on the hill behind the house, its shadow passing daily through the burying ground like the stately march of a giant sundial. Jamie and I had gone up there often of an evening in our early days at Lallybroch, to sit on the bench that stood against the broch’s wall and be away from the hubbub of the house, enjoying the peaceful sight of the estate and its grounds spread white and green below us, soft with twilight. 

The small frown was back between his brows. 

“The broch,” he repeated, and looked at me, helpless. “I dinna ken what it was. Only that I didna want them to go in. It … felt as though there was something inside. Waiting. And I didna like it at all.”

- An Echo in the Bone

anonymous asked:

Oh no I forgot to add the numbers of the questions :0, could you do 2, 8, 21 and 24 forPynch please?

Big spoon/Little spoon? As much as it would be nice to say that they sleep so much better in each other’s arms, romance is not a known cure for insomnia/a huge work load, so my money’s on the fact that they rarely go to bed at the same time and any spooning is unintentional (Ronan Lynch is a sleep cuddler) or up to the victor whoever falls asleep last. (There are exceptions. Waking up from a nightmare and being unable to move is made less lonelyfrightening when your love’s arms are wrapped around you. The first night or two when Adam comes home from school Ronan is latched to that boy’s back like he’s Rose and Adam is the door. I don’t know who Jack is in this metaphor.)

Nicknames? & if so, how did they originate? I’m not sure if either of them are pet-name givers. There’s Parrish and Lynch, Dreamer and Magician, but it’s hard picturing Ronan saying “my darling” not sarcastically (to Gansey maybe) and Adam may have gotten A’s in many language classes but love is not something he’s fluent in yet. Ronan is a dramatic little fucker though, a “beloved” or “my heart” may be thrown out eventually, accidentally, inevitably. Adam is content, confident in his ability to love and be loved, at that point that it passes without comment, natural. Gansey’s jaw drops to the floor and it takes Blue and Henry to lever it back up again.

Who is more likely to start dancing with the other? After Ronan’s birthday in trk there is nothing I want more than gatherings at the Barns with friends and family (at this point those two things are one and the same) and food and music and Ronan pulling Adam past the table they dragged outside to eat at and spinning him around, toes in wet grass, dream lights floating in summer air.

Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear during inappropriate times? Hello yes have you met Ronan Lynch, lover of Adam, fighter of men, speaker of subjects inappropriate? Adam gives as good as he gets though. Many Gansey (family not boy) events have been survived with games of “inappropriate-whisper” chicken. Its fine except for that one time an elderly woman overheard some rather explicit plans Ronan had for after the gala and cracked up, like this 87 year old woman laughed for a solid 12 minutes about Ronan’s dirty talk and interrupted the speeches and Gansey was quite cross and Adam never let Ronan live it down.

Day 3: Expeditions

“Okay… Okay, I know we’re getting close,” May mumbled aloud, turning her map over in her hands to look at it from a new angle. Drew raised an eyebrow at her, but kept stride; they had been wandering the city for about twenty minutes, and while their misguided expedition had been amusing at first, Drew was starting to get hungry.

“It’s upside-down, May,” he remarked dryly. May hastily tried to turn it in the right direction again.

“I knew that,” she said indignantly, but Drew shook his head.

“What’s the name of this place again?” he asked.

“The Striaton Restaurant!” May answered, her cheerful disposition returning. Drew pulled out his phone and started typing the title into search bar. Although he was no longer listening, May continued, “It’s supposed to be really good. Like 5-stars good.”

They stopped at a street corner. May squinted at the map, then glanced to her left. “Okay, I think we have to go this way,” she said.

“Well, according to my phone, it’s right there,” Drew said, pointing straight ahead. May blinked and lowered her map again. The building matched the pictures she had seen online.


They moved ahead, but Drew, of course, couldn’t let the moment pass without a snarky comment. “How you manage to navigate traveling without me, I’ll never know,” he quipped.

“Hey,” May retorted. “I just won the Sinnoh Grand Festival. Obviously, I can do well on my own.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

A fanfic with Jeller angry sex, pretty please?

Haha sorry Anon, that’s really not my thing. But here, I’ve been working on this oneshot on-and-off for a while now (since well before S2 aired), and it’s probably the closest that you’ll get from me :P

It happened slowly.

The first time, he’d walked in just as her round against the punching bag was starting to become violent, his silent gaze somehow loud in the empty, darkened gym. He hadn’t said a word; had simply put down his bag and stepped into the ring.

And waited.

Keep reading

Please Read

Unfortunately it has come to our attention that Admin A is no longer with us. She passed away last night and while we won’t go into detail, it has shaken us up. We have permission from the people who knew her best to post this and let you guys know what is going on. We are truly upset by this turn of events. We ask that you give us a little time to grieve and to respect that we may not post for awhile. Any asks sent in on this topic will be published without comment. Even though we only know Admin A for a few months, she became such a big part of this blog and to us. She was so sweet and we are so lucky to have known her. Admin A loved being on this blog and the talent that she had shown through whenever she posted. We will miss her deeply. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.

 - Admins M & E 

I’ve been thinking this for awhile. This opinion is partly in response to the posts I’ve seen that state something to the effect of: “This is an UNPOPULAR opinions blog, so SJWs stop reblogging and getting angry! Of course there might be stuff you don’t agree with, this if for UNPOPULAR opinions, duh!!!”

It doesn’t matter if a blog is for unpopular opinions, popular opinions, opinions about Harry Potter, opinions about race, or opinions about friggin’ fluffy bunnies. By posting and openly expressing your opinion, you are opening your opinion up to commentary and, potentially, some criticism. It doesn’t matter if it’s the big bad “SJWs” or whatever. Just because this blog is for “unpopular” opinions doesn’t make your opinion any less subject to discussion. In real life do you get a free pass to say whatever you want without any consequences or criticism just because you openly state “I have an unpopular opinion”? No, so I don’t understand why some people think it would be any different on the internet.

You post to this blog, you acknowledge that people are going to be able to comment/reblog your opinion and add commentary. Some may agree with you, some may not. (If everyone agreed with you does that really make your opinion so “unpopular” to begin with?) All I’m saying is stop whining about some poor little “SJWs” reblogging your opinion and adding commentary, because no one is forcing you to post here, and like it or not, they have just as much a right to their opinion as you do yours.

nitro-nova  asked:

How about just stop stalking a person after months and months of constant harassment and badmouthing. There's no way Pinkie did any of the things you are perpetuating. You have some serious distortion thinking she would try to get someone deported. Did it ever occur to you that there's no motive or evidence? People kinda stop perpetuating rumors about a person after a couple of days, and that's if they're on a serious rage-fest.

…Sweetie, there is literally proof of the things she has lied about.  Every screencap that others claim was “edited” can be seen in it’s original form, as her entire blog remains archived online.  Nothing just “disappears” from the internet.  There is clear record of her claims of what took place when she claimed to have attempted suicide.  The laws in her home state, regarding someone of her age, and of the issues she claimed to have, do not line up with her story.  I’m sorry if you can’t accept the possibility that the person you’re holding on a pedestal might actually be lying in order to garner attention - something more than a little obvious by recent posts of hers where she openly wishes she were “tumblr famous again”.

It wasn’t so much that she questioned the legitimacy of Michael Morones’ suicide attempt.  It was that she tried to take the very real suffering of a little boy, and make it all about her.  Once again, this is something that we have undeniable proof of.  We have her on record as making a statement to the effect of “but what about ME?”.  She did the same regarding the two little boys that were bullied over their backpack and lunchbox, respectively.

She has even admitted to a history of lying.

“the lying finally caught up to me and people have known me for over 4 years now so I couldn’t really pretend it was someone else”

Now, the fact that you once again have to resort to the old “stalking” claim at someone that not only does not look at any tags that aren’t related to horror, fashion, and non-MLP fan bases, but who - when it all comes down to it - is doing even less than what you are right now.  You have chosen to come directly to my blog in order to lob the same tired accusations at me that hold about as much water as a sieve.  At least 90% of the posts I’ve made regarding her whatsoever have been replies to asks.  This means that they are responses to questions posed to me by others.  If that is the definition of “stalking” these days, then literally everyone who has ever received and opened mail from the mail carrier is a “stalker”.  I also comment on posts that pass across my tumblr dashboard from those I follow.  If that is somehow “stalking”, then literally everyone on every social media site across the internet is also a “stalker”.  Of course, I’m wondering how you would have even known what I was posting about today, as none of it was tagged with anything that anyone without prior knowledge would have been searching for.  Really kind of puts the shoe on the other foot concerning this whole “stalking” idea, now doesn’t it?

Now, when it comes to spreading rumors , I daresay that you may not be one to talk about perpetuating rumors.  Honestly, let’s not split hairs here, since I’m pretty sure you’re one of the ones continuing to circulate the false allegations regarding BABScon and Sylvain (you know…the ones that those who started them still have absolutely nothing to lend them credibility, while every other party involved has completely invalidated them through personal and public correspondence).

You also might not be aware that there’s also recorded evidence of her followers harassing others.  Lots of it, actually.  As well as Pinkiepony herself picking on a little boy that contacted her with the utmost politeness.  I’m going to also assume that you’re unaware that, more than once, I have actually tried to defend Pinkiepony.  Oh, but of course you wouldn’t remember that, since you would have either outright ignored it, or mocked it as insincerity, since clearly, a person that disagrees with your views on the internet couldn’t possibly still think of you as a human being, and care about your well-being.  I mean, it’s not like I actually went to 4chan to try to stop them from sending a letter to her parents, or anything.  Oh…Except that I did.  I didn’t have to, but I still took it upon myself to do so.  And meanwhile, I’m being made out to be Satan incarnate, despite not being the one throwing around words like “scum”, “filth”, and all other related euphemisms, nor am I the one deliberately misgendering others, while I have seen her followers doing so without remorse.  Note the fact that I have never faltered in referring to Lucariwhoa as a she, because that is who she feels she is, and I respect that, regardless of how she refers to me, or how violently she threatens others.

As I did in the previous post, I welcome you to read through these three posts, (entirely of your choice, and entirely at your leisure) which I feel effectively puts forth why I choose to remain firm in my stance, and continue to defend the people that I have chosen to defend.

And so, I give you these words in good faith, and in civility, because that is how I was taught to treat others, no matter what their words to me may be.

Set Safety

So we’ve gotten a few requests since the Midnight Rider incident to make a public statement about the whole ordeal. It is well known that the loss of Sarah Jones’ life was unnecessary and avoidable. We would just like to comment that while it may not have been a rig specifically that caused the accident, it easily could have been. When you are working on set you need to know the limits of not only your gear, but of yourself. Say no when you have to, it’s as simple as that. 

Stay safe folks. Don’t let this whole thing pass without any changes being made. We work in our industry because we love to do it, but don’t forget you’re worth more than any piece of gear out there. Don’t let any producers or anyone else convince you that the show is more important.